Wild Card
by Hedgi
Summary: Eddie walks into the pipeline, his mind racing with everything he has been told he is. Forgotten. Unremarkable. Coincidence. All his life he's played the hand he was dealt, worked with what he had. Now he has one choice. One card. Spoilers for 1.23, character death. All aboard the pain train, folks!


He was never really liked in school. Beaten up until Coach Mindelan took pity and showed him, with blackened eyes and a split lip, how to throw a punch. How to stand on his own two feet so he wouldn't fall at the first shove. It's been years since he saw her. He should have thanked her again, but somehow, he never got around to it. After that, people mostly left him on his own. This is as close as he's had to a family in longer than he'd care to admit.

Even then, he's still on the outside of things. It bothered him less than it probably would have, should have. But school without real friends was hard. The police academy was easier. He never had his father's easy laugh. But in the years between, he was on his own.

So he read, some, hiding out in the library. The librarians were always protective, as much as the Coach. He still has a few of his old paperbacks. He was on the outside of those, too. but finally, things looked...different.

He always, though, always played the hand he was dealt. Took the punches, gave them back. If things happened, they happened, what point was there in fighting being fat, short, the neglected son of a self-centered politician? He played his cards, hoped for a better hand, worked with what he had.

He's been turning over words in his head. Professor Stein's. Iris's. Doctor-no, Eobard's. His own. Those in books. Words he's known, half memorized.

 _Forgotten by history._

 _A rare thing no scientist can predict._

 _Failures such as yourself._

 _An anomaly. A wild card._

 _Waste of a life, waste of a man._

 _What could he possibly have shown you to make you change your mind about us?_

 _You don't even get the girl._

 _Everyone has a contribution to make._

 _Heroes know about order, about happy endings._

He is not the hero. He was never the Hero, not even in his own story. Just the lucky bystander, or unlucky, dragged into it all by coincidence, by a canceled date and a mugger. Not supposed to be part of their lives. But he was, for better or worse. _And maybe,_ he thought, accounting like he'd been trained for the flaw in the plan, for the what if things go wrong, _maybe it is for the best_. Surely he helped, even a little.

Looking at Iris, he smiles. She's got her eyes on the monitor, but squeezes his hand as he pulls away. Joe and Cisco are down there, waiting. If anything is going to go wrong, by plan or happenstance, he should be there too. After all, he is a detective, even if his name is not writ in stone. He knows his job. His place is with his partner, ready to defend the oath he took to protect, not just the city, but this family that isn't his.

It broke him, a little, like a dropped vase, like his mother's china dolls, to hear and see how insignificant he was to history. His father had been right, in the end, after everything. To see that the future wasn't what he'd hoped. But then, Barry is about to prove the future isn't set in stone, even if Eobard (He can't call this murderer by the last name _he_ bears) proves that at some point, some things have to happen. So, as he goes back down, he lets himself hope.

Hope for a world that he still knows, when this changes-he never was one for sci-fi, time travel makes his head ache. Hope that these people, friends that might have been, have good lives. Without him. If this changes, who is to say he'll even be part of anything?

 _Play the hand. Whatever happens, happens. The future is what we make it, how we play the cards._

He hesitates at the door down, opens it as he hears the world explode like so much glass.

There is lightning, Joe and Cisco on the ground, Barry pinned by the throat and the Man in Yellow, quivering with power.

No one is fast enough to stop him, the man can dodge bullets. His mind races at that same speed, the quote about heroes rocketing, Stein's words, _the only one who can chose his own future._

The Man in Yellow, no, no, not the Man in Yellow, not Eobard or Wells, Thawne, his name is Thawne, raises a hand, promises to kill. Barry. Joe. Cisco, Iris. Iris. Iris.

He may not be the hero, he may not be fast enough to fight, but he has a contribution to make. He has one card left to play. Wild card. It's the only thing he can think of to make sure this stops, make sure this never happens. It's the only way to protect the family that isn't quite his yet, and never will be, not now.

So he plays it.

The gun is warm in his hand, but there is no time to pause, to hesitate. He pulls the trigger, staggers, pain blooming like roses, like the blood staining his shirt, like the dark staining his vision.

 _No such thing as coincidence._

People are screaming, Joe, he thinks, and her hands are there, pleading. He tries to smile, but can't feel, can't tell.

 _Stay with me,_ She's said that to him before and he tried, then, can't try now, this is how the story has to go. This is his choice. _Heroes know about the order of things. The happy ending cannot come in the middle of the tale._ The story is not over, but his part is.

 _He was wrong,_ he manages through the iron grip pain has on his lungs. _Turns out I am a hero after all._

Iris is weeping and her face is gleaming, glowing in this dark room, darker now. _You are,_ she tells him, he can only just figure out the words, _you are_ , and that has to be enough.

 _All I ever wanted to be._

There is no more air, no more light, no more pain. He wants to say, _I love you_ , he wants to say it over and over.

He used what he could, he kept his promise. The future's not up to him. His part's done.

He played his hand, best he could. His last card's on the table, the red ace on his chest.

He hopes it was enough.

~Fin~


End file.
